“Sounds fine to me.” He tipped his hat.
“I’m going, with or without the errand boy.” Morning Fawn snatched the note from his hand.
He scowled. It’d be just like her to take off once he got out of sight and latch onto the nearest conveyance possible as if it were her own. And he’d be blamed.
Mrs. LeBeau gnawed her lip. “It wouldn’t be proper for the two of you?—”
“Let’s go.” Enough of the bickering. Devon grabbed Morning Fawn’s arm. “You can’t go on your own, and I can’t leave you here.” He couldn’t pass up a chance to scout out the depot and warehouses facilities and estimate troop strength in the area. Maybe while he was there, he could even conjure up an ailment, an excuse to seek out Dr. Schramm, his contact.
Morning Fawn stiffened beneath his grip.
Mrs. LeBeau exhaled. “Then I’ll have to come.”
Devon glanced over his shoulder. “I wouldn’t want to put you to all of that trouble, Mrs. LeBeau. We’ll ride the horses. They’ve been unhitched from the carriage for a rest. We’ll rent a couple of saddles from the livery. Be back in an hour or so.”
As they parted ways from her aunt, Morning Fawn’s molasses-feet picked up speed, almost outpacing him. “I don’t need a sidesaddle. I can ride–”
“Don’t you get any notions.” He tightened his grip on her elbow. “I’m bringing you home to your uncle’s tonight. You can count on it.”
She tossed her hair. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. After all, I certainly must be there when Mr. Moyer comes to dinner on Saturday.”
“What makes you so certain he’ll accept the invite?”
“He’ll accept.” Her hard-soled shoes clicked on the boards. “If he has plans, we’ll simply adjust the date.”
Half an hour later with lead rope in hand, Devon guided his mare down the ferry plank, keeping pace with Morning Fawn. The quarter horse’s hooves clomped on the damp boards. Devon had suggested they walk the horses through the shallow Colorado River. Morning Fawn had seemed tempted at first but then insisted on the ferry because she didn’t want to ride up to the depot with the bottom half of her skirts muddied and wet. As if she needed to impress this Moyer character.
Withered Indian grass lined the clay banks as they mounted and ascended onto the Columbus Road. Pin oak, pecan, and mesquite flanked the rutted lane where a wagon rattled by. Only a few leaves clung to their branches. Were they victims of the shortfall of rain, or did the trees around here shed their leaves by the end of fall as those did farther north?
Morning Fawn slowed her horse as they neared a field of white tents, some planter’s dormant land turned into a Confederate camp. Thank goodness, he’d donned his butternut-colored uniform. Showing up in civilian clothes might haveearned him a forced trip to the provost marshal’s office to explain how he’d evaded the draft.
“Howdy, miss.” Two scruffy privates ambled by, hands stuffed in their pockets, no rifles, just their revolvers stuck in their holsters. Cavalry, if that was yellow piping beneath the dirt on their trousers.
Morning Fawn nodded. No word. No smile.
Devon pulled up alongside her. “Good. Best not to be too friendly.”
“Don’t worry about me.” She tossed her head. “I don’t believe in talking to men I don’t know.”
“Wise plan.”
Her gaze drifted back to the encampment, and his followed. Stumps stood where trees had once thrived. Soldiers meandered about. An occasional trail of smoke drifted upward from cookfires. Farther across the field, horses stirred in a wooden corral. Eighty, maybe a hundred tents. Two hundred men, at least. Maybe half that many horses. Good information to pass on to Captain Carson when they met up in a couple weeks.
He and Morning Fawn passed more men, more wagons. She drew her shoulders inward as if to put more distance between her and the passersby. Was it the number of people or the fact they were soldiers that bothered her?
The town came into view—an odd collection of one- and two-story wooden buildings, thrown together in a haphazard manner like logs in a jam. A runoff ditch with its murky water ran alongside the pock-marked road. A stink rose from the drainage.
Devon veered to the right. On the other side of the lane, a six-mule team pulled a long wagon loaded with ten bulging cotton bales. Two more wagonloads and teams trudged along behind. Soldiers on horseback caught up to the wagons at a steady clip and passed with only a nod. They were likely along for the ride, guarding the cotton all the way to San Antonio andbeyond. Too bad there wasn’t a Federal raiding party waiting down the way to take the cotton off their hands. Pay these Rebs back for the way they’d kicked U.S. troops out of the state and forced civilians to take up arms for a cause some of them didn’t believe in.
The road ended in a mass of buildings. A train depot, with the tracks and roundhouse behind, stood next to the loading docks where burlap-wrapped cotton towered three bales high—around five hundred pounds each if they were according to standard. Nearby, troops guarded the quartermaster depot. What Devon wouldn’t give to light that place up with a torch some night. From what he heard, thousands of pounds of gunpowder traveled through its doors bound to the Rebs in Louisiana and points east. Between the quartermaster’s and the train depot lay a wooden structure half a block long—the cotton station, according to Mrs. LeBeau’s directions.
Soldiers patrolled the entire area thick as a work party of ants, Confederate infantry and Texas militia alike. The Rebs weren’t about to make his mission easy. He rubbed his thumb back and forth across the reins as he moseyed his horse forward, studying the layout.
Morning Fawn’s interest in this Moyer fellow could be a definite asset. By all rights, he should encourage the attachment and tag along as a chaperone, get access to the inner workings of this place. He could stomach that about as much as filling his canteen in the drainage ditch.
As they reached the hitching post, Morning Fawn blew out a breath. “You can wait outside.”
He narrowed his eyes at her. “You and your aunt need to get one thing straight. I’m not at your beck and call. I do my work the way I see fit.”
